


Ka Mate

by a_shepherd



Series: The Vorkosigans At Home [3]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Schmoop, Teaching, The Regency of Aral Vorkosigan, Warrior Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_shepherd/pseuds/a_shepherd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they did on their summer vacation...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ka Mate

         Since the start of summer, Aral had steadily become more and more overworked, far more so than usual. Cordelia had caught him nodding off ever so briefly far too often on the increasingly rare occasions he was able to sit down to a meal with the family. The boys noticed it, too, giving her worried looks. Knowing him only too well, and knowing he'd resist any appeal to his own self-preservation, while they were in bed one evening - he with his usual endless pile of memos and reports - she told him that what she _really needed_ was at least week away from the city, to Vorkosigan Surleau - to get away from all the damn imperial ‘stuff.’ Maybe only four or five days swimming, fishing, and just kicking back might do it, she told him, and it would be good for Miles and Gregor, too. He agreed readily, as she knew he would, and told her he'd join her and the boys there when and if he could. Outmaneuvered, she told him _nothing doing_ \- either he came _with_ them or _none_ of them would go. Outmaneuvered himself - a sure sign he was in dire need of time off - he agreed reluctantly, though she suspected he was actually a bit relieved to have have her essentially make the decision for him. _Definitely_ a man in desperate need of a little therapeutic R &R!

     Cordelia engaged Miles and Gregor - ages seven and twelve - in a bit of a domestic conspiracy to think of something to distract Aral and get his mind off work as much as possible once they got to the lake house. Miles had recently found an old flimsy tucked in one of Aral's battered old Earth history books in the library at Vorkosigan House - a photo of dozens of dark-skinned, black-haired men dressed in what appeared to be military uniforms in some kind of ritual pose. (see link at bottom) Intrigued, Miles asked Aral about it and was told it was a picture of a Maori regiment taken in 1941 in Egypt during WWII - the Maori being the the aboriginal natives of New Zealand on Old Earth. He told him the men were soldiers performing a pre-battle haka - _peruperu_ \- a ritual warriors’ dance. He had learned all this from an ancient vid book - an Old Earth encyclopedia - that had been his mother’s favorite book as a child, and his own as well.  Elaborating, Aral told him that his childhood enthusiasm for haka - he’d been four years old at the time - led him to to paint himself with the Maori's scrolling tribal patterns, using brillberry juice in lieu of their tattoos, and perform the ritual chants and dances. 

     Miles was taken as much by surprise as she was, since his father didn’t readily talk about his childhood. He was very much intrigued by that photo, for all the same reasons that his four year old father had been. The men in the photo were obviously warriors, appealing to Miles as both his father's son and to their shared, inherent Barrayaran military propensity, seemingly encoded in their DNA, in her opinion. He had decided learning this haka stuff would be a _really_ _really_ cool, interesting thing to do. ‘Cool’ - somewhat to her dismay - had become his favorite word as of late. _Where the hell did he learn it from, anyway?_ Cordelia agreed it sounded like the perfect distraction, and as soon they were settled at the lake house, Miles asked Aral to _please please please_ teach them the haka, knowing full well that Aral would deny him nothing as harmless as this. Gregor, a keen observer of his foster father, played his part to perfection. He knew _exactly_ which buttons to push, pointing out the beneficial educational and historical aspects, while shrewdly keeping the ‘cool’ factor out of the equation. Aral, despite being swamped with work even there, agreed. Grinning Gregor and Miles did high fives behind his back as soon as he did. It all fell into place so amazingly easily, or so it seemed at first. 

     To Cordelia, Aral rationalized the time spent with the boys away from the mountains of regency work waiting at his desk as a worthwhile effort, calling it ‘a teachable moment' - after all, it _was_ part of their cultural heritage from Old Earth. She teased him gently, asking if it wasn't really just his 'inner four year old' at work, a point he conceded wryly, with his customary good grace and a grin. Having learned of most of his rather dreadful early childhood from other sources - _really, it was like pulling teeth to get the man to talk about it at all_ \- Cordelia was more than willing to aid and abet in any 'second childhood' moments that came his way. She was glad he was least getting _some_ time outdoors in the sun and fresh air with the boys, despite putting in far too many extra hours late at night to make up for it. 

     But after just two nights with very little sleep on his part, she put her foot down firmly and emphatically, telling Illyan and Vortala in no uncertain terms that unless it was a matter of life or death - say, on the order of another Cetagandan invasion fleet - NOT to send him any more briefings or reports. He had a sizable staff, who _should,_ by God, be able to handle the routine stuff for a few days. If they couldn’t, well - that was something that needed _immediate_ looking into! She hinted ominously that rolling heads might be involved, reminding them that the Regent was _supposed_ _to be_ relaxing. If they didn’t or couldn’t deal with it, and quickly, they’d have to deal with _her_ in Full Shopping Mode, which put a dramatically abrupt end to the daily flood of paperwork and vid calls and gave the poor man some genuine rest.

     Aral spent hours the first few days teaching a delighted Miles and Gregor the dance moves and chants in the original Maori, along with their translations. He taught them the origin and meaning behind the various forms of the dance. Their afternoon sessions outdoors drew the attention of curious onlookers, and they were soon joined by the two youngest armsmen along with a few of the servants' and older armsmen's teen sons. The troupe expanded further with the addition of an ImpSec lieutenant off duty at the time and some younger townsfolk who had heard about it through the village grapevine. Ivan had joined them for a few days, and was nearly in tears when he told them he wouldn't be able to practice with them any more, as his mother was taking him on their annual summer trip to the shore with her sisters and their families. Miles was genuinely sympathetic, knowing how much Ivan usually liked going to the shore. 

     Cordelia greatly enjoyed the sight of Aral enjoying himself, getting enormous pleasure out of watching him. _He should have been a teacher,_ she thought, _he’s a natural at it._ As he ever was in teaching mode, no matter what the subject, he was patiently encouraging, leading his motley crew of eager if initially bumbling dancers through their paces by example, with his vigorous, athletic grace. Everyone picked up on his seriousness and learned quickly under his tuition. Haka, not surprisingly, was something that appealed strongly to the Barrayaran soul. Even oh-so-serious Gregor, lately hyper-conscious about appearing 'imperial' was very much into the spirit of it, and participated as enthusiastically and unselfconsciously as the rest of them.

     It had taken on a life of its own somehow, beyond the original intent of enticing Aral to unwind and relax. Miles - in full Force Of Nature Mode - insisted on putting on a show for the servants and townspeople, and as was often the case, Hurricane Miles prevailed. A day before the performance, by unanimous consent, the dancers asked Aral to be their dance leader and perform with them. Sheepishly, but pleased as all hell, she thought, he agreed, _but_ _only_ if a mixed-gender children's haka was added to the production. He had noticed - _of course he did, very little ever got passed him_ \- quite a few of the servants’ and armsmen's young daughters going through the motions on the sidelines as the boys and men practiced, and saw they knew the routines just as well if not better. He had Gregor announce it to the dance crew - it was so typical of him, _always_ noticing everything and _always_ utilizing those teachable moments - gently imparting a lesson to Gregor AND getting the message across to everyone else in a positive way. There was some half-hearted grumbling - _GIRLS!_ \- _but anything for the Lord Regent, eh?_ He spent the morning of the performance day teaching a small, suitably mixed-gender group a simple children's greeting haka, accompanied by much riotous laughter. He was in his glory, as the ringleader of an adoring and adorable mob of children. Cordelia made a mental note to congratulate Miles on one of his best ideas _ever_ \- she hadn't seen Aral this relaxed in years, far too many years. Haka! Of all things... Who knew? She never would’ve guessed...

     Mid-afternoon on the day of performance, she stepped out into the bright sunlight onto the patio in back of the house with a tall glass of iced tea, and was gobsmacked by sight of the Lord Regent of Barrayar in swimming trunks, deeply browned by the sun. He was sitting patiently - rather regally, she thought - while being painted in faux tattoos with brillberry juice on his back and arms by the two like-painted, sun-bronzed boys. Their own designs had been applied earlier by Aral, rather more artistically. Miles came up with the idea to incorporate his father's many scars, standing out whitely in contrast to his dark tan, into the designs - an artistic sensibility he had no doubt inherited from Aral. She winced mentally, recalling her first summer here, making the rookie mistake of underestimating the power of the Barrayaran summer sun, so puny in comparison to Beta's. _Or so she thought_. She sighed at the painful memory of her first ever sunburn. The upside was being slathered lovingly in soothing ointments several times a day by Aral while she healed, but she was glad Miles had inherited his father's coloring. Gregor possessed enough of their shared genetic background to be similarly burn-resistant, thankfully.

     Sitting on one of the patio chairs, she picked up a few flimsies with chant lyrics which were lying on the patio table, and read a translation of one of the traditional Maori ones. 

     “Good lord, this one’s rather horrifyingly martial.” 

     "Hah! That's what my mother said, too," Aral said, grinning.

     Miles chimed in with, “It's s'posed to be martial, Mama - it's a _war_ chant!”

     Another was a Barrayaran composition from Aral’s childhood - a patriotic chant suitable for all audiences of all ages. Miles was not nearly as enthused about that one.

     “Do I hafta chant 'all hail our emperor,' Da?”

     Gregor glared at him disdainfully, trying not terribly successfully to look imperial. 

     Miles continued his whinging, directed at both his parents while glaring back at Gregor. “What's _he_ s’posed to chant, then? 'All hail me'?”

     Gregor snickered, his narrow, painted face bearing a gleefully malicious grin, while Aral was just barely suppressing his own.

     Cordelia decided to try her hand at painting Aral’s chest. Feeling frisky, she straddled his thigh, facing him. She knew all his ticklish spots and contrived to hit most of them as he struggled to keep a straight face in front of the boys. Her tickle-fit was soon over since he was manfully refusing to cooperate, _not even a chuckle_ \- _she'd get him for that later!_ The sun was making her languid as she resumed her application of the blueish-purple juice. She took her time, having a lot of chest to cover - a happy thought! She felt a deep, satisfied thrumming emanating from him, rather like vibrations being given off by a tuning fork or a purring cat. His eyes were closed, the corners of his lips curling lightly. She remembered how keenly aware of his body she had been in their first days together on Sergyar, how even fully clothed he had exuded a powerful masculinity that attracted her in spite of herself. Later -  he didn't disappoint. In her opinion, he'd been doing an outstanding job maintaining that figure, aside from a slight thickening at the waist, but then, she was possibly a wee bit prejudiced. She was only mildly aware of becoming aroused until a short, sharp gasp and a quick shudder from him made her aware that he was, too.

     She stopped her ruminations to focus on him. Aral’s long-lashed eyes were wide open now and gleaming brightly in a way that had nothing to do with the strong afternoon sun. His broad, muscular chest was glistening with a light sheen of perspiration and freshly applied 'tattoos', his nostrils slightly flaring and breath coming in short gasps. 

     He managed a ragged sort of yelp. “Fire in the hole!” 

 _Hmmm_ , she thought. That was his name for Rule Fifteen. _The man has such a brilliant way with words, he really does. The soul of a poet,_ she thought admiringly. Drifting her gaze slowly down to his lap, she couldn’t help but notice an _extremely_ impressive bulge straining tautly against the black fabric of his trunks. 'Fire in the hole' indeed! 

     Cordelia whistled appreciatively. "My! That looks painful, sir.”

     “Heh!” he croaked, swallowing hard.

     A great word, that - with endless nuances. She wondered how she ever got along without it. Aral, of course, was a galaxy-class grand master in its usage. 

     “I'll need a minute,” he told her, struggling to get his breathing under control.

     "More like a cold shower, I should think,” she retorted, in a decidedly naughty mood.

     Blinking hard and fast, he choked out in a rough squawk, “Rule Four, dear Captain.”  

     Which was, of course, Not In Front Of The Children. Cordelia snickered - if not for the boys, she would have jumped his bones then and there, armsmen be damned! Both boys had  stopped painting during their exchange. Gregor appeared slightly nervous and a bit anxious, while Miles had perhaps an overly-eager look of anticipation. _Definitely time to shut it down_ , she thought with a disappointed sigh.

     She whispered in Aral's ear, “We'll finish this tonight, love.”

     The velvet voice was a husky rumble. “Oh, indeed we shall.”

     Reluctantly, she let the boys take over painting his legs while she returned to the chair and curled up with her tea, the ice now melted, watching them. From her recent reading, she knew that ancient Maori warriors often did the dance and went into battle naked, but now was perhaps not the time to bring it up with the boys around. Damn Rule Four! Her thoughts drifted - _possibly the Lord Regent could be enticed into a private command performance later?_ Fairly purring herself at the thought of it, she had to exert some major self-control techniques in lieu of a cold shower of her own. _Tonight_ , she promised herself. The boys finished his legs while Aral did his own face with a curious intensity and the sureness of having done it many times before.

***

     Shortly before the performance that evening, a retired armsman - the father of one of the dancing armsman - fondly told her about four year old Aral. With his mother and brother, he'd spent five weeks in his father's highly mobile camps one summer during one of the worst periods of the war, near the end. The Cetas had dramatically turned up the heat, intensifying their hunt for the General’s family to use their capture as leverage against him. It was the longest the boy had lived with the whole family together in his short life. He told her how most of the men had originally found little Lord Aral’s eclectic enthusiasms highly amusing, if not downright hilarious. His attempts at constructing a samurai helmet using an old battered cooking pot - festooned with twigs, broken glass, and feathers - had them in stitches for weeks! His intensity for haka enticed quite a few of the younger men - officers and troops alike, to join him. Part of it, the old armsman told her, was his childish intensity and infectious enthusiasm, which reminded the men of their own young sons or little brothers, and partly the highly militant nature of the dance. He told Cordelia how it had been an officer's idea to take it beyond just something to do to humor the General's little boy and break up the daily grind of camp life in those dark, desperate days, and actually _do_ the dance rituals before their missions. A greekie tech sergeant had composed a patriotic Barrayaran chant for them in a similar style, the very one they would use tonight. While the General looked askance at the whole thing, he did not put a stop to it, and while the family remained at the camp, solemn little Aral danced with the men. It wasn't lost on the officers, nor the General, that morale improved considerably. _That’s just so characteristic of Aral,_ she thought, _not to have mentioned that particular part._

     She marveled at how quickly the news had spread in an area of supposedly 'primitive' communications. Aral, for his part, looked a bit bewildered at the size of the incoming crowd, and asked wonderingly how it gotten so out of control - from simply something for him to do with his boys to this full-blown theatrical production. Both voiced their realization at the same time - “Miles happened.” A low, temporary platform had been built by the lake, with the sunset for a backdrop. Flaming torches defined the seating area on the gradual slope toward it. A large crowd gathered from the town and District, many carrying blankets and stuffed picnic baskets. Apparently, the Lord Regent's childhood performances had become - unknown to him - the stuff of local legend. ImpSec was frantically making sure no recording devices of any kind made their way in, fearful of possible political fallout if news of the event became public knowledge beyond Vorkosigan Surleau. _Shirtless men! Including the Lord Regent! Doing foreign dances! In public!_

     “Barrayarans!” Cordelia growled under her breath. When Simon Illyan in a near-dither had come in himself to supervise, she realized with a jolt that Barrayarans _really_ _did_ take things like that seriously. Half jokingly, she remarked, “We should have sold tickets. Or popcorn at the very least!” which earned her a particularly acerbic glare from a visibly frazzled Simon.

     The evening’s presentation began with Aral giving a short introductory speech on the meaning and forms of the Maori’s ritual dances, many of them over a thousand years old, including one they were going to perform. The first sight of him elicited ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ from the crowd - Rule Ten B: Not Even Men May Go Topless Publicly. It _was_ mildly scandalous in that regard, but his painted ‘tattoos’ didn't allow much visible skin to show, so a lot of the shock value was diminished. _Barrayarans!_ she snorted. _How could anyone be offended by such a stunning display of male pulchritude? Seriously, people..._   Aral was looking particularly lordly and delicious, in her opinion. Her toes began to curl as she remembered her part in his chest ‘tattoos’ and she needed a few moments and some effort to regain her composure.

     First on the program was the mixed-gender children's greeting haka that Miles also participated in, drawing good-natured laughter from the crowd at the hastily put-together, endearingly awkward, high-spirited and energetic performance by the grinning children. It was followed by enthusiastic, familial applause from the crowd as a beaming Aral looked on. 

     The main troupe then filed onstage with Aral. In what she liked to think of as his Full Professorial Mode, he launched into an explanation of their first number, telling them ‘Ka Mate’ was classified as _haka taparahi_ – a ceremonial haka, composed by Te Rauparaha, the war leader of the Ngāti Toa tribe around 1820. He told them that when the chief was growing up, there had been inter-tribal warfare between his people and a neighboring tribe, with territorial disputes, constant skirmishes, and reprisals. He told them that when Te Rauparaha was a young boy, his father was captured, killed and eaten, and he grew up to become one of the most feared warrior chiefs in Maori history. The previously boisterous crowd had grown silent, spellbound, their attention focused on Aral, telling an ancient tale they could all too easily relate to and appreciate. 

     “‘Ka Mate,’” he said, shifting his gaze over the audience, his voice expertly modulated to  force them to listen carefully, “is the tale of a clever ruse Te Rauparaha used to outwit his pursuing Ngati Maniapoto and Waikato enemies. Fleeing for his life,  he had come for protection to Te Whareangi, a chief friendly to him.” Aral paced the small stage, pausing for dramatic effect - not that he needed it, judging from the crowd’s reaction so far. “At first, he did not wish to become involved, but in spite of his misgivings, Te Whareangi hid Te Rauparaha from his enemies in a deep, underground food-storage area, and when they had gone, the chief climbed up out of that pit to be met by Te Whareangi - the ‘hairy man’ of the chant. Legend has it that after Te Rauparaha emerged from the darkness of the pit into the light of day, having narrowly escaped certain death, he composed the haka ‘Ka Mate’ - most correctly interpreted as a celebration of the triumph of life over death.”

     Aral had the crowd’s rapt attention, hanging on his every word. “Even though in the latter part of the 20th Century on Earth it had come to be synonymous with certain sporting events in its homeland as well as in many other countries,” he solemnly intoned, “ _that_ is the true meaning of ‘Ka Mate’.” 

     With an introduction like that, Cordelia knew it was guaranteed to be hugely appealing to the audience, especially to anyone from the Dendarii District, sounding as it did so very like one of their own wartime legends. When he finished and took his place with the troupe, the crowd's attention was riveted on the dancers, mesmerized, in silent anticipation.

     The village doctor’s ten year old daughter, chosen by draw from the children’s chorus members, read the interpretation of the introductory chant, while Aral as dance leader, his deep baritone booming over the crowd, bellowed out the traditional words, designed to remind his dancers how to comport themselves and to instill strength and determination into them so they could enact the ritual with great power and force. 

 

                                                                               Ringa pakia

                                                                                Uma tiraha

                                                                                Turi whatia

                                                                              Hope whai ake

                                                                        Waewae takahia kia kino

 

                                                                   Slap the hands against the thighs

                                                                            Puff out the chest

                                                                              Bend the knees

                                                                             Let the hip follow

                                                                  Stamp the feet as hard as you can

 

     Following Aral’s lead, the assembled dancers began the performance. To a man, they were solemnly respectful of the tale they told, with a deep, visceral understanding the of the jubilation felt by Te Rauparaha as he emerged from the pit into sunshine and life, having escaped from his murderous, pursuing enemies, and were easily able to convey his heartfelt emotions to the audience through their vivid expressions and bold gestures.  

 

                                      Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora!                I die! I die! I live! I live!

                                      Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora!                I die! I die! I live! I live!

                                          Tenei te tangata puhuru huru                      This is the hairy man

                                               Nana nei i tiki mai                               Who fetched the Sun

                                        And caused it to shine again.                            Whakawhiti te ra

                                         A upa ... ne! Ka upa ... ne!              One upward step! Another upward step!

                                        A upane kaupane whiti te ra!            An upward step, another... the Sun shines!

 

     It concluded to several rounds of extended, appreciative applause. Cordelia knew the next one, the _peruperu,_ would be an even bigger crowd pleaser. Before beginning, Aral explained to the captivated audience that warriors would perform it before battles to proclaim their strength and prowess, but mostly to intimidate their enemies. It was a loud, wildly vigorous dance with long stick 'weapons' filling in for the real thing - full of heavy, rhythmic stomping, chest slapping, jumping, tongue wagging, eye rolling, and fiercely growled chanting, along with the flashing, twirling weapons - all supremely appealing to Barrayaran sensibilities and, as she had predicted to herself, drew even more enthusiastic, thunderous applause than the first one. 

     The troupe then performed a number intended to be amusing, having been written during the Cetagandan War by one of Piotr’s lieutenants who had danced with the young Lord Aral. It was designed to praise the Resistance forces and their mighty General and be no end of insulting to the Cetas, denigrating their fighting abilities as well as their intelligence and parentage. The audience roared their appreciation, some singing along, with laughter and raucous cheering at the most insultingly derogatory Cetagandan bits, of which there were many. 

     The final number was the Barrayaran patriotic chant, joined by the children, which brought down the house, complete with wolf whistles and what would have been repeated curtain calls if there had been a curtain. Led to the front by Aral, Gregor had been gently but firmly induced to take a bow before his subjects. Cordelia was shocked to notice he actually didn’t seem to mind at all! _Good boy, Gregor! Good for you!_

     The night of the performance, Aral had been in an odd mood Cordelia couldn't pin down,  with a defiant, clenched-jaw look in front of his father. Piotr was emphatically _not_ comfortable with the idea of the Lord Regent ‘playing’ as he put it - especially in public - and initially refused to come watch, even though both boys appealed to his sense of warrior tradition. Miles tried to wear him down with incessant wheedling, but the old man had been adamant, so to her great astonishment, she spotted him in the crowd. Along with many audience members, he was moving (very slightly) to the rhythm and stomping his feet (very surreptitiously). Many in the crowd, she noticed, were mimicking the chest slapping and hand gestures of the dancers. Watching with the rest of the enthralled audience - among them, some elderly Dendarii who had witnessed the original wartime performances, people who had heard about the originals, curious villagers, the non-performing household staff and their families, children - all in admiration and awe of the evening's spectacle and of their Lord Regent leading it, Cordelia realized _these people get it. Get HIM,_ in a way Piotr never could. In truth, she suspected, in many ways, neither did she - not really... not yet, anyway.

     The evening had had a festive atmosphere - an unequivocal success, with many in the crowd clamoring for it to become an annual event. Miles was in his element, bossing people around with his usual authority, aplomb and panache. “Miles may have found his calling as a holovid director,” she told Piotr, also watching Miles. “Was Aral ever like that?”

     Snorting, “Never! That boy couldn’t swagger if his life depended on it. Still can’t.” 

     She couldn't read his expression - was he proud or perplexed? Both, most likely.

     “He just had that quiet way of 'suggesting' a thing and start doing it himself. The men would be eager to go along with him, pretty much the way he's done it all his life. I haven't a clue _how_ he does it. It’s no secret, I’m sure - I don’t understand Aral and never did. In some ways, I find him more alien than the Cetas ever were, but he _has_ undeniably always had that ability to inspire great loyalty from our liege people, far beyond what is owed as their future liege lord, or what’s due him from those under his command. I can’t deny he’s always gotten remarkably good results doing it his way.”

     Piotr drew himself up, ramrod straight, with one of the sternest expressions she had ever seen on his face, and that was saying a lot. “ _I_ command awe and respect for my wartime exploits. _I_ _demand_ _it_ _as my right_ , along with the reverence from people in this district due to their count.” He paused for nearly a minute before continuing, his voice low and full of  raw emotion. “Aral... also commands awe and respect - as our youngest admiral, as the Hero of Komarr, and now as Lord Regent. But more than that, people seem to love him for _himself_ , even when he was just a snot-nosed, gap-toothed, scabby-kneed little boy doing those damn dances... Always have.” He growled,  “ _Nobody_ ever loved Piotr Vorkosigan like that - or if they did, they had the commendable good sense not to show it! Not to my face, at any rate! Hmmph!”

     The crowd had finally dwindled away. The staff was busy cleaning up, dismantling the platform and taking down the lights. Cordelia noticed Aral away from the remaining lights and the few stragglers still lingering, talking solemnly with two older men, one of them the former armsman she had talked to earlier. He was about sixty-five years old, the other at least seventy. Miles and Simon Illyan were looking on nearby as the older man began to chant - not one she recognized from the night's performance but an even _more_ martial-sounding one. The younger one picked up the chant, and Aral joined in. All three men began to do a powerfully aggressive, exceptionally ferocious haka, all of them in a kind of deep, trance-like reverie. _Seeing_... _what? Memories from more than forty-five years ago?_ The intensity of their movements and the volume of their low, rough chanting increased - their facial expressions were those intended to strike fear and terror into the hearts of the enemy. Piotr had joined her, looking equally fierce. Proud, too? Miles and Illyan looked as awed as she felt, with chills cascading up and down her spine, the hair on her arms standing on end. Miles, beside her, was wide-eyed, open-mouthed, and - for possibly _the_ _first time in his life_ \- literally speechless. 

     He was bright enough to know his father was a Very Important Person, but could a seven year old _really_ comprehend what being the Lord Regent actually meant? She thought not. He knew his father primarily as the big man who shucked his uniform jacket and spent two hours every day on the floor with him in those early years, before he could walk. Aral was the one who taught him how to blow milk out of his nose and to how to wad bread bits into tiny balls to catapult onto the ceiling with his fork - and _then_ make bets as to which would fall first. He was the man who knew how to launch him into the air off the dock with _just enough_ force to do a respectable cannonball but _not enough_ to break any bones, the man who taught him which snow made the best snowballs and how to lie in wait to ambush unsuspecting armsmen. He was the man who used separate voices for _all_ the different characters when he read him his Vorthalia the Bold books. The man he saw roaming around the house, yawning, tousle-haired and stubble-jawed early in the morning, clad only in his underwear, in a bleary-eyed search for matching socks. Seeing his warm, loving father and frequent playmate as this physically powerful, intensely masculine warrior was a stunning revelation to him - to _both_ of them. 

     Feeling a slight tug on her skirt, she looked down to see Miles, gobsmacked and starry-eyed, watching Aral. 

     “Mama?” His voice was a hushed whisper.

     “Yes, sweetie?”

     Miles struggled for words - a noteworthy occasion. “Da, he's... he's... _he’s_ _beautiful!!!_ ”  

     “Oh, yes! He is indeed, love.” 

     Simon Illyan, gushing unabashedly, said in an awestruck tone, “Magnificent!” Reverently adding, “That’s probably the way the dance was _meant_ to be done.” 

     Piotr, with a distant look and a supremely sardonic grunt barked, “That's the way _real_ warriors do it when they _mean_ it.”

     Cordelia realized then that for all Aral was her gentle yet passionate lover, a devoted, deeply caring father, and a brilliant, shrewd statesman, he was - _above all else_ \- an exemplary warrior, born the day his mother was killed in front of him. Brave, fierce, loyal and unyielding in defense of his emperor, his family, and his people, he was highly skilled in many forms of combat with a multitude of weapons - including his own deadly bare hands. He was the quintessential Barrayaran military man - a battle-hardened, physically and emotionally scarred survivor. She experienced a brief moment of panic when Piotr approached him, not sure of the old man's intent and hating to have him destroy the almost magical mood of the evening with some typically petty criticism, although his uncharacteristic mood tonight had been nearly as odd as Aral’s was.

     “Well done. Well done, indeed,” Piotr said quietly, laying a steady hand on his son’s bare shoulder. Aral looked absolutely stunned. Stepping back, the old man nodded toward the group and added, “All of you - then, as well as now. Well done.” The General bowed brusquely to the three of them and they bowed back, the whole exchange imbued with rigid military propriety. 

     Piotr then bowed slightly to Cordelia and left. Deeply moved, with more than a hint of disbelief in his tone, Aral asked her, “Did the Count-my-Father just do what I _think_ he did?” 

     “I’m not 100% positive, love, but I _think_ so. It certainly sounded like it.” 

     “I’ll be damned! I've always felt he just thought of it as another of my little hare-brained, childish fancies if he thought of it at all. I never _imagined_ he paid any real attention.”

     “He must have. I saw him mouthing the words when you and the troupe were onstage.” Aral, shaking his head, looked as gobsmacked by his father's apparent compliment as she felt. He turned his attention to the two old soldiers, thanking them for coming. The three shook hands and bowed to each other informally before the men left. Grinning a bit sheepishly at Cordelia and Miles, Aral said, “I think we may have gotten a bit carried away there.”

     Miles was still wide-eyed, aquiver with excitement, his gleaming eyes locked on his father. “Oh, no, Da!!! That was the most _awesomest_ thing I've ever seen!” 

     Aral's brows quirked up briefly in amusement until he noticed the look of near adoration on his son's face. Expression thoughtful, voice gentle, he picked Miles up and held him carefully. “Is that so? Well, you're awfully young yet, son. I dare say that will change quickly enough once you've seen a bit more of the world.”

     Deeply serious after brief consideration, Miles said, “No, Da... I don't think so. No.”

     “Do you know what _my_ most awesomest sight ever is?” He spoke so softly Cordelia could barely make his words out, but the warmth was unmistakable. “Just the other morning, out there on the lake, when you first sailed, dumped, and righted that old skimmer by yourself. Now _that_ was awesome!”

     “Oh, Da!” Miles buried his head in the crook of Aral’s neck, followed by a fierce embrace, his small shoulders heaving with emotion. His father held him, one big hand almost completely covering his back. Cordelia thought the sheer intensity of the love and affection pouring from both of them was almost unbearable to watch. It was a toss-up as to whose eyes were shining the most. She felt her own welling up. Miles still had his arms wrapped tightly enough around Aral's neck to cause her some momentary concern, until she caught the look in Aral's eye. _Joy_ was the first word that came to mind. Sheer unmitigated joy. Then - triumph, satisfaction, relief, exhaustion... He richly deserved renown for his famous poker face on the job, but in private, his emotions were always out there, front and center - there was no holding back, _especially_ not with Miles. _Never_ with Miles. 

     He set the boy down, and when he spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, an indication he was still composing himself. “Off to bed with you now. It’s _way_ past your bedtime.”

     “Can we do this again next summer, Da? Huh? Can we?” 

     “We’ll see, son.” His expression was serious, but an incipient twinkle filled his eyes.

     The Milesian Charm Offensive dialed up to eleven. “Please, Da? Pleeeeease?” 

     Aral directed his glance toward Cordelia. “A little help here, milady...”

     Snickering, she said, “Hey, I’m with the kid on this one. Any chance to watch my husband dancing shirtless in front of adoring crowds and I am One. Happy. Camper!” 

     Rolling his eyes in mock sarcasm, and with a courtly bow, he retorted dryly, “Thank you _ever so much_ for your support, dear Captain.” 

     All three of them were grinning like idiots by then. He turned back to Miles. “Bed, boy!” 

     “So, next year’s a go, then? Right, Da?”

     With his finest faux Stern Expression and the No Nonsense Finger emphatically pointed toward the house, Aral commanded in his Admiral On The Bridge voice, “Now, Lord Miles!”

     From vast experience, Miles knew the Bedtime Delaying Tactic had run its course and trudged off, looking back admiringly at his father several times. Cordelia slipped her arm into his as they watched silently until Miles reached the house. 

     “Sometimes, Aral Vorkosigan,” she told him, in her most Betan voice, “you’re just too good to be true.” 

     Aral unleashed a loud, half-snorted chortle, then looked at her shyly, long lashes hooding his eyes, “God knows I try. He deserves the best.” Wrapping a strong arm firmly around her waist, he added softly, with a deeply wistful sigh, “So do you.” 

     “Trust me, love - we have it. In spades.”

***  

     Much later that night, after everyone was gone and the boys were asleep, Cordelia changed into shorts and a light summer top and joined Aral at the pavilion. With a few torches still burning on the shore, both moons full, and a soft breeze blowing, she thought the setting was almost a romantic cliche, as if someone had stage-managed it. Surely Miles wasn’t _that_ good! Not yet, anyway...

     The two of them were lying together on their favorite, battered old lounge chair. It was actually not quite big enough for two, but that was a large part of the appeal, in her opinion. Aral had never uttered a word in complaint since Day One, even though he had served as her patient (if firmly muscular) cushion for much of the time since then. She let out a decidedly unladylike, noisy little snort remembering his comment the first time they sat together on it - that he _loathed_ tiny women - and sighed deeply in contentment while snuggling into him even closer. They each were nursing a now warm glass of wine, while an array of small candles flickered on the small table beside them. _More cliche_ , she snorted again. All it needed was a strolling balalaika band to complete the effect! 

     Aral was softly humming the greeting chant. Recognizing a burgeoning, mischievous mood, she playfully asked if they were going to pick up where they left off that afternoon.

     Wickedly grinning, his eyes dancing, he said, “Since _you_ got to have all the fun this afternoon painting _me_ , dear Captain, it’s only fair that I should have the same chance with you. Ever the master strategist, I _just happen_ to have a bottle of brillberry juice with me.” 

     He attempted to dig the tiny vial out of a very small pocket in his swim trunks, with a good deal of squirming and grunting from him accompanied by snorts and giggles from her, as he maneuvered to remove it without either of them having to dislodge themselves from their very cozy nest. 

     Wallowing in laughter, she snickered, “Not that I’d often second-guess a master strategist, but wouldn’t it be easier if we both just got up?”  

     “Hah! No doubt, but where’s the fun in that?” 

 _Oh, very definitely a mischievous mood_ , she thought. _Should be... interesting!_

     He had promised to be 'especially artistic' - so he was - and _not_ just with the juice! Those large, square, blunt-fingered hands were warm and deft as always, working their usual sensual magic to ecstasy-inducing effect. She would never cease to be amazed at how anything so big and strong could be so exquisitely gentle at the same time. It was one of her life's enduring mysteries - one she was in no hurry whatsoever to figure out. Lying happily exhausted in each other's painted arms afterward, she felt the deep, low, gurgling rumble in his chest - a sign he was holding back laughter.

     “A penny for your thoughts, heart.”  

     “Ah! Sorry, dear Captain, I thought you were asleep.” A delighted chuckle escaped him. 

     “Don't tease, man... out with it! What's so funny?” 

     “Well, I was just thinking,” he solemnly informed her, pausing briefly to masterfully nibble her right earlobe, “of the fun we're going to have (a matching nibble on the other ear) washing each other off in the morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Watch ‘Ka Mate’: NZ ALL BLACKS BEST HAKA - YouTube  
> Regimental pic: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maori_Battalion  
> (scroll to near bottom)  
> Regimental funeral haka: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m94bZFcJJEQ
> 
> Regimental haka: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BiuPb50E1vg


End file.
